


i (want to) believe

by je_ne_sais_pas



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, The X-Files
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - X-Files Fusion, Ambiguous/Open Ending, M/M, Oblivious Grantaire, References to Addiction, Slow Build, Slow Burn, So Very Slow, Supernatural Elements, so many references to other fandoms, vague crime scene descriptions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:01:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24020248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/je_ne_sais_pas/pseuds/je_ne_sais_pas
Summary: Grantaire honestly does not believe in any of this ghost-alien-nonsense the X-Files unit is wasting money and time on. Good thing he's only filling in for Combeferre temporarily and spending most of that time arguing with his new partner and ignoring the supposedly paranormal things happening around him.No, Grantaire never did believe in much of anything; or so he claims.(a very self-indulgent x-files AU for the les mis big bang)
Relationships: Cosette Fauchelevent/Marius Pontmercy, Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 38
Collections: Les Mis Big Bang: Quarantine Edition





	i (want to) believe

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome. Everything is fine.
> 
> A few things before we start:
> 
> Real FBI agents have to be US citizens. I am aware of that, but since this is not a story about real FBI agents, I have decided to Not Care. Also, I have lost all sense of how long things take and, in general, how time works, so we’re going to skip past all those issues as well. Artistic license and all that jazz.
> 
> There is a ridiculous amount of various references to the media I currently consume nonstop in this fic, so if you find something that seems familiar, it was probably on purpose. Also, this quite accidentally got LONG.
> 
> Before the Les Mis Big Bang happened, I hadn’t written anything in literal years, so I would like to thank and apologise to [my wonderful beta Siz](https://ahartfulloflove.tumblr.com/). Special thanks to Charlotte and Rebecca, and, last but CERTAINLY not least, my amazing project partner [Megan](https://mistoelectra.tumblr.com/) who did actual cosplay for this fic that I will link below. I’m still in awe.

**FBI Headquarters  
Washington, D.C.  
February 199X**

When Grantaire signs into work on a rainy Monday mid February, he is insultingly late again. He’s not particularly bothered by that; he’s been with the bureau long enough to know exactly which rules to bend without getting fired.

What’s more annoying is the fact that the only person in the office kitchen is Marius Pontmercy, and he’s hogging the coffee machine.

Grantaire likes Pontmercy, he really does, but he prefers his presence post caffeine. The headaches are still bad in the morning.

“You alright,” he says to not be an asshole when he steps past him, reaching for a mug.

“I’m fine,” Pontmercy sighs, clearly not fine. Grantaire can live with that answer, though. He just nods as a reaction.

Pontmercy watches him stir two spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee, clearly desperate to keep chatting but not as rude as to keep trying in vain. He tries a different angle.

“So, Courfeyrac says you’re filling in for Combeferre now? How did that happen?”

“Unclear,” Grantaire answers, taking a sip. It’s disgusting as usual, but it will keep him adequately awake. “But you can’t really say ‘no’ to a guy who just broke his leg on the job.”

“Have you met Enjolras yet?” Pontmercy says it casually enough, but there’s a flickering in his eyes like a deer in spotlight. It’s delightful.

“No, but I’m about to. I’m already late enough to make a great first impression.” He saunters out of the kitchen with a wink and ignores Pontmercy’s nervous chuckle.

There are a few agents he knows walking the corridors between the main offices, without exception looking snobbily busy. He takes the elevator back down to the lobby and turns right for the stairs to the basement with a sigh.

The basement is probably the oldest and most disgusting part of the building. It seems fitting to have the unit working the dustiest, most unrealistic cases down here. Alien abductions and supernatural phenomena _should_ be stored closer to hell.

The air down here is almost sticky with the smell of earth, even though everything looks just like a shabbier version of the corridors upstairs. There’s a light on behind one of the doors, so that’s the one he knocks at.

“Come in!”

The office behind the door is only about half the size of his old one at Organized Crime, and completely crowded with files, books and stacks of paper. He almost doesn’t see the man sitting behind one of the two desks someone has managed to squeeze in here, until he gets up.

He’s gorgeous. Like, ridiculously handsome. No one in real life should have this much going for them. Apparently, the FBI puts all sorts of unbelievable things in the basement.

“You must be Detective Grantaire,” the man says, offering his hand.

Grantaire manages to shake it like a normal person. “Doctor Enjolras, I assume?”

“Precisely. Are you alright? You are quite late and you look somewhat …” he looks Grantaire up and down with a bit of confusion, “shaken.”

Grantaire’s soul re-enters his body with a start. “Sorry. It’s just …” he lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “I think I saw a UFO on the way down here.”

Enjolras looks incredibly unimpressed. “Are you always this funny?”

That, at last, breaks the spell completely and Grantaire cracks a smile. “You can bet on it.”

“Great,” Enjolras deadpans and moves to get some files off a chair. “I should tell you that we are quite used to that general sort of abuse, so you should get a bit more creative if you want to make fun of your own unit.”

“My own unit, _temporarily_ ,” Grantaire says and flops down. “Besides, my presence is not going to change the fact they’re calling you the French Department down here already.”

“That doesn’t even make sense. There’s lots of French people working for the bureau.”

“Sure, but no other department has a minority quota of 100%.”

Enjolras opens his mouth a bit, genuinely irritated now, but seems to decide against whatever he was about to say. Instead, he clears his throat and changes the topic. “I was about to leave without you. We have an eye witness to the case Combeferre and I were looking at before he got indisposed.”

He hands Grantaire one of the files on top of another pile.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Grantaire says, flicking through it with his thumb, but not actually reading. “Are you repeatedly required to jump off roofs during a chase, or was that a one-off? Because my health insurance isn’t great.”

Enjolras glares at him as he reaches for the car keys. “Get your coat, detective.”

“Alright, doc. So, where’s that witness of ours?”

“Cleveland.”

Grantaire groans. “Are you serious? First case with the Alien Division, and you’re dragging me to _Cleveland_? That’s depressing.”

“Welcome to the X-Files.” Enjolras shrugs on his own coat. “Also, we’re driving. Our budget got cut again at the start of this year.”

“Well, I’m calling shotgun.”

**

Grantaire spends the first half hour of the car ride making himself acquainted with the case file. To his great disappointment, it seems to be just another odd cold case that Combeferre found a ‘promising lead’ for a few weeks back.

Missing person cases are always stressful. While not actually facing the worst from the start, they always have to expect it and work against the clock to prevent it from happening. This one, however, is not just one person, but a whole group.

Combeferre added multiple colourful post-its to the file pages, drawing possible connections to other cases; Roanoke, the _Mary Celeste_ , the like. Frankly, Grantaire doesn’t see it. He throws the file on the backseat and just looks out the window.

The landscape is quite dull, even for Maryland, and Enjolras drives just under the speed limit, which should be reassuring but for some reason simply annoys him.

“So, how long have you been with the bureau?”

Grantaire had not picked Enjolras for one to make smalltalk. He notes with an interest that he is drumming his fingers on the steering wheel irritatedly.

“About seven years,” he answers carefully. “How long have you been hunting ghouls?”

“Four years in May. It really isn’t as bad as you seem to think.”

“No idea what you’re referring to.”

He decides to have a bit of fun, just to pass the time. Enjolras hates it, of course. Honestly, though, it’s his own fault for being so fun to rile up.

“Absolutely not.”

“Well, how would you know? Have you been there?”

“There was _no_ zombie plague in Roanoke, are you kidding me?”

“It is small minds like yours, Enjolras,” Grantaire says, inspecting his fingernails, “that will always stay in the way of the truth.”

“Small minds, is that what we are calling this now?”

“There are lots of mysteries in the world.”

“I am literally a medical doctor. There is nothing, _nothing_ , that would make a plague with those … qualities even scientifically possible!”

“Well, there might be other science that you don’t know about.”

Enjolras almost crashes the car.

**

When they get back home after the Ohio trip, they have a sizable amount of new clues and not a single lead.

“This was good work,” Enjolras says to him as he gets out of the car.

He claps his hand on the roof of the car twice, like the cool people in movies. It’s an old habit by now. “See you tomorrow, doc.”

“Stop calling me that,” Enjolras says tiredly and drives off.

As the door finally closes behind him, Grantaire realises he’s _knackered_. Every single bone in his body creaks, and his headache comes back full force now that he’s not distracted by the dull hum of the car and the presence of his new partner.

Still, he feels weirdly _good_.

He takes several ibuprofen and stares at himself in the bathroom mirror until he feels a bit bad about himself again, and then he finally crawls into bed.

Enjolras’ eyes haunt him into his dreams.

He hasn’t slept this well in _months_.

**March**

Combeferre still rings to check in on them every other day, and Grantaire is allowed to pick up the office phone now when Enjolras is busy. It’s _great_ fun. He twirls the cord round his index finger while Combeferre seems to be slowly losing his mind on the other end.

“You ‘kind of missed’ getting actual evidence of extraterrestrial activity because it was ‘sort of fogged up’?!”

“Why are you repeating everything I just said? It’s really weird.”

“Because that is absolutely ridiculous!”

“With your glasses, you really should understand our plight better. Anyway, it was probably some government shooting drill.”

Enjolras shoots him a glare from over at the printer. “Two hours ago you were _insisting_ it was a demon.”

Granted, but that was because it is very funny to see Enjolras roll his eyes that far back. “Oh yeah, I still need to call Jehan from the lab about that exorcism.” He does it again.

“Ask about his leg,” he says curtly.

“My leg is _fine_ ,” Combeferre answers as Grantaire dutifully relates the question. “I’d be back in the bureau already if I weren’t so afraid of Joly and his tranquilizers.”

“I think Enjolras might break your other leg too if you tried a stunt. Ow.” Enjolras has thrown a pencil holder at him. “Honestly, we’re fine. It’s quiet down here. Like a holiday from major crimes that I’m getting paid for. _I_ might break your other leg so I can stay on Weird Alien-Ghoul-Conspiracies.”

“Enjoy it while it lasts,” Combeferre laughs. “I’m taking this from you first chance I get.”

They hang up and Grantaire gets back to his case files, which he’s been folding into paper cranes for the past hour and a half.

“Would you stop doing that?” Enjolras has been in a weird mood these past few days, snapping back at him with even more enthusiasm than usual.

“These are going to the shredder, because someone forgot to change the toner cartridge and now all the copies are pink,” Grantaire answers and sharpens one of the edges. “Besides, there’s nothing else to do.”

“Did you file your demon report?”

“Are you admitting it now?” He looks up with a grin. Enjolras ignores him. “Filed and submitted, and I’m taking the copy to the archives after lunch, so they can put it next to Majestic-12 and Roswell.”

Enjolras seems put off by his efficiency. Grantaire would be, too, but he’s been too bored to procrastinate working.

“Do me a favour then, if you are so on top of things, and get me something from the archives.” He scribbles something down on a notepad, then hands it to Grantaire. “I have an autopsy in thirty minutes, and I have to get this to the deputy director beforehand.”

“You got it, doc.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes again and leaves hastily, not even bothering with a ‘thank you’.

Because of that, and because he’s pissed his last crane turned out particularly wonky, Grantaire decides to take his sweet time and get himself another coffee before running the errand.

The archives are mostly empty by the time he gets there. Most people are on lunch break.

“Hey, Pontmercy!” The guy looks miserable, barely looking up when Grantaire approaches him. “Listen, could you run me some numbers? There are some old case files I’d like to check out.”

He does, still looking as if he’d witnessed the murder of at least five puppies. Grantaire decides to spend the waiting time inspecting a book entitled _Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?_ by a man called Dick. It seems to be a lot less fun than the title suggests.

“I met this girl a few weeks ago,” Pontmercy starts, unprompted.

Grantaire cocks his eyebrow and puts the book down. “Good for you?”

“It’s really not,” Pontmercy exclaims. “It’s like she’s a ghost. One moment, I’m talking to the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, like, actually talking to her. And we get on so well, I’ve given her my card and everything, and we’ve been walking around for _hours_ just getting to know each other. And it’s getting really late, so I try to get her a cab and turn away for one _second_ and the next moment - _bam_ ” he actually slams the table, “she’s just gone. Vanished into thin air.”

“That’s rough, buddy,” Grantaire says, not quite sure if that’s the whole story already.

“I haven’t heard from her in ages. She’s probably halfway back to England by now. She has family there, you see.”

Grantaire hums. Pontmercy lets his head slump down on the table with a dull _thunk_.

“I just don’t understand what went wrong, you know? I was a perfect gentleman. I think. I mean, I don’t even know anymore, but I definitely tried!”

A number starts flashing on the screen, but Grantaire feels this is the wrong moment to bring that up. Not even he is that cruel.

“And it’s not like I could _find_ her, because I don’t even know her _name_ , but she has my number, so she could contact me, right? So I’ve been writing to my landline company, and of course _they_ say there’s nothing wrong with my line, but it’s been weeks and I can’t call them of course, because what if _she_ calls _right then_?” He freezes. “Oh God. What if she calls while I’m at work? I should take a few days off and -”

“Marius! Stop it!” He blinks at Grantaire like a deer in headlight. It seems to be a regular look for him. “No offense, man, but do you really think she’s interested when she hasn’t called you in weeks?”

He deflates a bit more at that. “Maybe not,” he murmured. “But we really did have this connection. She _said_ so, too!”

Grantaire sighs. “You know, sometimes you can have a connection with someone and they still let you down.” He pads Pontmercy’s shoulder awkwardly. “I mean, it’s not like she went missing by accident.”

He can feel Pontmercy sit up straighter under his hand. He doesn’t like this.

“But what if she did?”

Grantaire stares at him, not quite comprehending yet.

“What if something actually happened? What if someone kidnapped her? Can’t I file a missing persons report?”

“You can,” Grantaire says slowly, “but how? You said you didn’t even know her name.”

“Aren’t you working all kinds of weird, unexplainable cases?” Pontmercy’s eyes are desperate. “Please, Grantaire, I’m begging you. I honestly don’t know what to do with myself at the moment.”

Oh, Grantaire hates this. He really hates all of this. But apparently, he’s really bad at saying no lately. He sits down reluctantly and Pontmercy cheers.

**

The only footage they find at all from anywhere close to what Pontmercy describes as their ‘lover’s route’ is from an ATM camera, and it’s so blurry they can’t do much with it. That seems to dishearten him again, so Grantaire sends him to the composite artist and finally takes the data prints he came for in the first place.

He’d also talk to Jehan about sending a few boxes of chocolate to the archive room to calm Pontmercy’s nerves. Jehan is good with these things.

**

The more he reads Combeferre’s case files the more he hates to admit the guy might be onto something with some of his wild theories. While most of them speculate about mythical creatures, aliens, demons and the like, a select few are perfectly reasonably built. A few missing people’s cases from 1974, an unsolved murder from ‘83, and an apparently victimless crime scene from ‘89 seem particularly promising.

“I’m taking these home with me,” he tells Enjolras, grabbing his jacket.

“Why?”

Grantaire halts in the middle of collecting the rest of his stuff and leaving. He frowns. “What do you mean, ‘why’? You do it all the time.” Enjolras scoffs and murmurs something into his mug. _“What?”_

“I _said_ , that’s because I actually care about solving them. That’s my _job_.”

A cold and nasty feeling runs down Grantaire’s back. “It’s also mine.”

“No, it isn’t. This is _temporary_. It’s a fucking holiday for you, remember? I do, because you mention it every five minutes.”

“That’s a _joke_.” He’s not sure why he’s getting defensive. Not that it matters, because Enjolras is raging.

“Of course it is. Our whole department is a joke to you, as am I. You have made that very clear.”

The cold settles now, and it’s _sharp_ and stinging against his temples. “It’s not like you believe in any of this supernatural crap either.”

“As a matter of fact, I don’t. But there are a lot of people out there who have seen something they are _scared_ of and they don’t understand it. And, like it or not, it’s our fucking job to help them and to get them a reasonable explanation.” He lets out a huff of air. “This is a serious matter, Grantaire, and I’m _sick_ of you pretending this is just a wacky fun pastime.”

“What’s brought all this on? Why are you giving me shit for doing my work all of a sudden?”

“Because you’re so unprofessional! You come in late every single day, you make mistakes in your paperwork every time -”

“Oh, as if you’re so perfect!”

“When I asked you for those archive statistics, you took _five hours_ to get back!”

“They had a fucking problem with their system, alright?” Technically, Pontmercy is part of their system so that’s not even an excuse.

“Honestly, Grantaire, I don’t know why you’re here if you don’t think this is important.”

Grantaire stares at him for several seconds, disbelief boiling in him just as hot as the unexpected anger. “Yeah,” he finally says, and he hates how rough his voice sounds. “I don’t either.”

He takes the files, calmly puts on his jacket, and slams the door behind him.

**

Grantaire’s rage drives him to do an honestly impressive amount of investigation. His throat is as dry as sandpaper, and his fingers are itching for a bottle that isn’t there, but it all keeps him going.

He calls to order pizza at 10pm and gets grease stains all over his own notes, flicking through the phone book and writing up several people from Combeferre’s files. He falls asleep on the sofa at some point, the television in the background showing some sitcom. The canned laughter is like white noise.

He wakes up with a start a few hours later. It sounds like the telephone is ringing, but when Grantaire tiredly presses the receiver to his ear, there’s just the dial tone.

Confused, he sits up. It’s still dark outside, and his neck hurts like hell.

Again, the phone rings. He answers it.

“Agent Grantaire?” A male voice he doesn’t recognise.

“Yeah, who is this?” His head is honestly killing him, too.

“You have a friend higher up.”

“I do?”

“You ran some numbers through the system today. A lot related to some cold files.” The guy pauses. “Let them stay cold.”

“Who the hell are you, man?”

“You don’t want this case,” the guy on the phone says. _And then he fucking hangs up._  
Grantaire stares at the wall in disbelief.

**

The next day, he very much wants this case more than ever, and so he makes it to the office before Enjolras. (The doorman actually does a double take when he signs in, which would be rude had he ever come in before 11 before.) He hadn’t properly looked at it the past few days, what with Pontmercy distracting him and Enjolras getting all up his arse.

For the X-Files, it seems perfectly normal. Another series of missing persons cases all over the States, with people weirdly disappearing just after something really positive had happened in their lives - engagements, promotions, even one newborn child. The cases had been connected before, of course, but were still officially unsolved since none of the people had ever reappeared nor any culprit been found.

Grantaire makes himself a whole pot of coffee, and gets to work.

Up until their disappearance, all of the victims had led dull, uneventful small town lives complete with white picket fence and health insurance. Their ages ranged from twenty-three to sixty-eight; the disappearances themselves happened over the course of several years, never around the same date or even weekday. The victims were farmers, teachers, students, accountants. Apart from their families and closest friends, no one even seems to really recognise they were gone.

Grantaire writes up a few notes by hand so as to not leave a digital trail, but it’s mostly hopeless. The weird guy on the phone needn’t have warned him of looking at this case. It doesn’t look very solvable to him.

Enjolras is quite perplexed when he gets in shortly before nine and sees him scribbling at his desk. “Good morning,” he says slowly, making it sound like a question.

“Hi,” Grantaire says and stuffs his notes into a desk drawer.

“What are you doing?”

“Taking my work _seriously_.”

It works better than he’d have thought; Enjolras grimaces. “Look, I apologise. I have had a truly bad week, and the deputy director was pestering me about these statistics, but it was unfair of me to let that out on you. I am sorry.”

Grantaire is surprised. He did not expect an apology, let alone an honest one. “Well, next time just tell me that, alright?” he says. “No need to start yelling at me for no reason, when there’s so many legitimate ones.”

Enjolras seems pleased with that and sits down at his own desk. “What _are_ you working on, though? It is like 5am in your time, right?”

“Ha, ha.” Grantaire grins. This feels more like their usual dynamic. “I was actually looking at these cases you got so very passionate about yesterday. What did you need those numbers for, anyway?”

“The bureau is writing a report on all the unsolved missing persons cases in the state of New Mexico. Every department had to submit their cold case files.”

“What do you mean, New Mexico?” Grantaire flicks through the files in front of him. “The victims were from all over the States, I thought that’s what made these X-Files.”

“They were, but they all disappeared without a trace around the same area. Does it not say that in there?” Grantaire shakes his head. “Let me see that.”

Grantaire nips his coffee while Enjolras studies the files. It’s cold. It’s not even 10am and his coffee is cold. This is what you got for being early. His stomach is growling, too.

“That is odd. I got this list from Combeferre a while ago with all the names on it, hang on a second.” He pulls several sheets of paper off a cupboard. “There. Last known locations of … all of them, within the same state and in about a ten mile radius.”

“Some of them had family down there, I think. One had invested in this alien-themed milkshake bar, I remember that.” Grantaire grins. “Are we going on a road trip?”

Enjolras groans. “Fine. I am changing my appointments. We have to go to the mortuary first, though, I have an examination scheduled for 11.”

“I would love the opportunity to see you at work, doctor Frankenstein.”

He rolls his eyes and puts his coat back on. “Come on. I am getting you breakfast on the way there.”

**April**

It doesn’t get them very far, but they do make a contact who apparently knows a friend of a friend and promises to stay in touch. Also, Grantaire gets them alien googly eyes headbands in Roswell and Enjolras even puts them on for about ten seconds, which is long enough for Grantaire to save the picture in his mind forever.

On their way back, they pass Goatman’s Bridge, and Grantaire bullies Enjolras out of the car to take a look.

“Neither of us believe that there is actually a demon haunting this place, so _what_ is the _point_?” he tries to protest in vain.

“It’s going to be fun,” Grantaire simply says.

Old Alton Bridge comes complete with a sign telling the scary tale of its demonic occupant that Grantaire reads out loud amusedly by the beam of his flashlight.

“It is _freezing_ out here,” Enjolras says annoyed. “Can we please leave?”

“Not yet. I want to walk around it.”

“Why?”

“Don’t you want to be able to reminisce about the time when you heroically crossed the Goatman’s Bridge by foot and lived to tell the tale?”

“Not really.”

“Combeferre would be so disappointed in you,” Grantaire says and starts ahead.

“Combeferre would definitely not get out of the car here in the middle of the night!” he hears a shout, but it’s followed by shuffled footsteps behind him. “This is so stupid.”

Grantaire grins.

It is eerily quiet out here, but despite the cold, it’s weirdly pleasant. They’re surrounded by the earthy smells of the forest, and apart from their car, there are no lights for miles.

He knocks on the iron truss three times, like the plaque says you shouldn’t. Of course, nothing at all happens.

“I could live here,” Grantaire says, suddenly at ease.

“Fine with me,” Enjolras says. “You fight Goatman to the death for his bridge while I go look for a hotel. Call me tomorrow if the frost hasn’t killed you.”

Grantaire follows him to the car laughing and they drive across the second half of the bridge and leave it behind. For a split second, he thinks he sees a thin figure standing in front of a bush, but his eyes are only playing a trick on him.

**

Enjolras doesn’t seem to date anyone, ever, period.

Not that that’s important in any way, not that Grantaire _cares_ , either. He just casually realises one day, because usually he has at least one partner working with him who’s constantly distracted by their latest crush.

Now, it’s mostly just Pontmercy staring absentmindedly at walls and one time even doodling in the margin of his report, which made for an awkward meeting with the agent-in-charge and got Pontmercy an official warning.

It’s refreshing to just focus on the job for a change.

Of course, the job is still bonkers and Grantaire is not quite sure how their division exists, exactly. His best guess is that there’s somehow more people like Combeferre working in the bureau’s management, indulging them and spending ridiculous amounts of taxpayers’ money.

He’s more surprised that Enjolras of all people not only tolerates this, but actively partakes in the whole circus. It is a strange truth that apart from his work ethics, Grantaire knows virtually nothing about his partner.

It’s spring when he decides to investigate the matter. They’ve just spent the better part of a month hunting down a Jack the Ripper emulator all across Tennessee, a case that was mostly sad and upsetting to his stomach. Even his jokes about reincarnation dried up pretty soon after Enjolras spent half an hour lecturing him about the lives of sex workers and how actually just two of the original victims and none of theirs had been confirmed as such.

For the most part, they’ve stopped the ugly version of their fighting, though, which is progress as far as Grantaire is concerned. Also, he got a pretty good punch in when they finally caught the psycho and he tried to run.

He starts poking when Enjolras is in a particularly good mood after his fourth cup of coffee.

“Who’s that?” he asks and points at the picture on Enjolras’ desk. It shows a tiny version of the man himself sporting a grin wider than Grantaire has ever seen him smile and an adorable tooth gap. Sitting next to him is a girl with dark pigtails who looks at the camera with big round eyes. A man with a gentle smile and a large white beard has his arms around their shoulders.

Enjolras glances at the photograph as if he’d forgotten it was there. “My father and sister.”

“I didn’t know you had a sister,” Grantaire says picking up the frame and wiping the dust off the glass. “She seems sweet.”

“She was,” Enjolras says.

“Oh, I get that. When my sister got older, she was an even bigger pain than when she’d tell my mum I gave her rabies.”

“I haven’t seen her in six years.” Enjolras clears his throat and takes the photograph from  
Grantaire’s hands. “She disappeared just after her twentieth birthday.”

Grantaire is stunned. “I’m sorry.”

“Well, it does not mean she’s dead, does it?” Enjolras sighs and puts the picture back on its place on the overflowing desk. “There have been next to no traces of her, though, so it’s been hard on my dad. He adopted us when we were small.” He blinks as if he’s only just realising he’s been sharing all of this out loud. “Would you hand me that box over there?”

**

“He’s never stopped looking for Cosette,” Combeferre elaborates when Grantaire calls him. “I think it’s the main reason he joined me in working the X-Files, even though he doesn’t particularly believe in the supernatural. With his qualifications, he could have transferred anywhere. He didn’t just stay here for me.”

“Does he keep a file on her?”

“Of course he does, but I doubt he’ll let you see it. I’m surprised he even told you about her.”

“I don’t think he really noticed he was doing it until it was too late. He had a lot of caffeine.” Combeferre laughs at that. “Would you tell me where he keeps it if you knew?”

“I don’t and I wouldn’t,” Combeferre says. “But honestly? It’s been so long, it would take quite a miracle for Cosette to come back home. And I don’t think he believes in those.”

“Neither do I,” Grantaire tells him sadly and says his goodbyes.

**

They’re investigating a series of eerily similar suicides all over small towns in Nevada without any obvious connection between the victims. They have been driving around in the dry sun for days now and Grantaire really wants to quit and just go to Disneyland. He’s told Enjolras multiple times that he was bad at reading maps, but he wouldn’t listen.

“I’m pulling over,” Enjolras says irritatedly when they finally pass the first gas station in miles.

It’s a wonderful feeling to stretch out his legs while Enjolras fills up the tank. Grantaire cracks his neck and listens to the steady hum of his headache. “I’m getting drinks,” he shouts over the car and claps the roof twice. Enjolras gives him a distracted thumbs-up.

The air inside the convenience store is filled with the rattling of an old fan and the sticky-sweet smell of gasoline and sugary drinks. Grantaire takes a packet of cigarettes and a few bottles of refrigerated water and is trying to decide between the assortment of disgusting snacks on company money. He barely takes note of the clerk picking up the phone and talking to the person on the line, until he starts shouting at him.

“Oy! You there.” He gesticulates Grantaire over, the receiver in hand. “‘s for you.”

“Hello, Grantaire,” the guy on the phone says. Grantaire recognises the voice.

“Again, who are you and -” he looks around the shop for cameras, but doesn’t see any. Horrible, really, considering the crime rates. “How are you doing that?”

“Don’t worry too much about it. The tip with those vagrants helped you, right?” During the Fake Ripper investigation, someone had slipped a newspaper article on the situation of the homeless in Knoxville, Tennessee, under Enjolras’ door at the mortuary that had led them to the arrest of their killer.

“That was you?” Grantaire says now.

“Not personally, but yes. You did something for us, so we’re doing something for you,” the guy says. He’s not completely omniscient, then. After all, they’re still working the missing persons’ case, albeit somewhat slowly. “What do you think about the people you’re investigating at the moment?”

Grantaire waves the shop clerk off, who rolls his eyes and mumbles something not very nice about cop arrogance, but does leave to take the garbage out. “The victims were all found in their homes after overdosing on the exact same combination of medication and alcohol. They were ruled suicides, so we’re still looking for something in their lives that -”

“What do you _believe_?” the guy interrupts.

Grantaire presses his lips together. “I think it’s foul play, but we don’t know how. There was no sign of forced entry, no evidence of anyone being at all the crime scenes.”

“Maybe they didn’t have to be there in person, either.” He pauses. “A lot can be transmitted from afar these days.” He hangs up.

Grantaire hands the receiver back to the annoyed clerk when he returns and leaves a tip higher than appropriate on behalf of the FBI. He steps outside deep in thought.

Enjolras is leaning on the car on the passenger side and raises an eyebrow as he sees him approach. “Everything alright?”

Grantaire nods slowly. “Say, how much do you know about satellite transmission?”

“Not a lot, why?”

“I think we should make a stop down in Phoenix. I have a friend who works for an IT firm there. He can probably confirm the connection between the victims.”

“And, pray tell, what is that connection you just came up with that you want to drive for hours in the direction we came from for?” Enjolras asks, more confused than anything else.

“They were all discovered in their living rooms, right? Maybe they liked watching television.” Grantaire grins and holds up his purchases. “Don’t worry, I brought snacks and drugs.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes as he gets in. “Do not smoke in the car.”

“It’s _my car_.”

**May**

They’re in Paris for a case of “demonic activity”, and Grantaire realises only now how much he’s missed the city. Sure, the streets stink of sewage and there are tourists everywhere, but still. It’s home.

Enjolras blinks miserably as the sun shines directly into his eyes, because of course he didn’t bring sunglasses. The weather forecast only predicted an Augustlike and very unfrench heatwave. “Stop it,” he says warningly when Grantaire gives him a smug grin, not for the first time on this trip. “We were asked to go to a crime scene close to the Place Saint-Michel, so we should get a taxi.” He pushes a paper cup of steaming coffee into Grantaire’s chest with such fervour it’s a miracle nothing gets spilled.

“What for? There’s a _métro_ station right over there, that’s way cheaper.”

Enjolras stops and considers that. “Yes, good point. We should do that.”

“I’m sorry, what did you just say?” Grantaire grins.

“Oh, you heard me. Come on.”

It feels like a small victory. He takes a small sip of his coffee as he trots to the station and is pleasantly surprised that Enjolras seems to have remembered his order.

(Enjolras, of course, takes his with about half a liter of soy milk, which makes it really fucking hard to get just anywhere. He keeps a carton of it in the fridge at work. “It has nothing to do with this strange hype,” he said when Grantaire confronted him about it. “I am lactose intolerant. Besides, it is better for the environment.” “It’s also brown and tastes like bird poo.” “And how would you know?”)

They wait quietly for the train, and Grantaire uses the silence to people watch. He used to paint next to the Seine not far from here when he was younger, but never the river or the imposing silhouette of Notre Dame on the horizon. Always the people.

The city brings out the quirks in them, and Grantaire used to capture them and collect them like others do stamps or pretty pebbles.

It seems like several eternities ago.

They don’t clash as much with the rest of the population here, what with their suits and ties that are for some reason part of the bureau’s uniform. The Parisians are mostly dressed with a bit more _chique_ than people in D.C., and those who aren’t are probably tourists.

The carriages are unbearably hot and sticky, and Grantaire misses the whirring, headache inducing sound of air conditioning back in the States.

A pretty freckled girl catches his eye when they get off at Saint-Sulpice, and he throws her a wink. He notices Enjolras looking at him for just a second too long before he starts walking. Grantaire wonders if he spilled something onto his shirt.

**

Paris is beautiful in this weather, and Grantaire makes a point of commenting on every corner he recognises. Enjolras seems to be enjoying himself a bit less. He stumbles over the pebblestone boardwalk at least twice, and Grantaire is sure he hears him swear at some ducks.

The FBI has its own bureau division here, of course, but special agent Jondrette has apparently specifically requested their presence.

When they arrive at the scene, it becomes clear why fairly quickly.

Enjolras sees the corpse before Grantaire does, and his blue eyes go comically wide. “That’s Claquesous.”

Grantaire frowns. “Isn’t that the guy who -”

“Combeferre jumped off a roof for, yes.”

 _But why the hell is he here_ , they both don’t say out loud.

Special agent Jondrette sees them standing around gawking and waves. She introduces herself as Eponine, shaking Enjolras’ hand first as they seem to have met before. She seems tough, but she has dark circles under her eyes.

“You’re not Combeferre,” she says when she turns to Grantaire.

“You found the reason he’s not here,” he answers in French, nodding his head at the body.

“How did he die?” Enjolras asks.

“Oh, you’re gonna love this,” Eponine says and takes them over. Claquesous is lying on his back next to a tree, apparently fallen down as if unconscious.

She has the medical examiner turn him to one side to expose a large bite mark on his neck.

“Is that …”

“Yup,” Eponine says matter-of-factly. “Second in a row, too. They were both part of the same street gang, so we believe someone is going after their members on purpose, possibly out of revenge. As for the cause of death … well. That’s why I asked for your division.”

“Now that is demonic activity,” Grantaire says. Eponine holds back a grin.

Enjolras puts on the gloves handed to him by one of the standby agents and kneels down. “He’s only been dead for a few hours,” he says. “When did you find the first victim?”

“Three days ago, over in Montreuil. He wasn’t the first victim though.”

Grantaire looks at her, surprised. “He wasn’t?”

“Doesn’t your agent-in-charge keep you informed about these things?” Eponine shakes her head. “There have been at least two similar cases. One in New York state, one in an English town called Norwich. All of them with bite marks from a creature that they can’t determine.”

“I’m guessing that’s where our unit comes in.” Grataire rubs his temples.

“Were those victims connected to this street gang as well?” Enjolras asks.

“It’s not definitive yet, but possibly.”

“We will need a list of all the current and former members you know then.”

Eponine smiles saccharinely, like you would at a toddler who was really, really trying their best. “It’s not cute how you seem to think we don’t know how to do our job over here, you know.” Enjolras closes his mouth. “Anyway, I can do you one better. We might have a witness to the crime.” Eponine nods at the ambulance parking a few meters away from them. “Case is officially yours, gentlemen. But don’t be afraid to call me if you need help.”

They watch her leave into the summer morning.

“She seems pretty great,” Grantaire says appreciatively.

Enjolras mumbles something that seems to be more annoyed than impolite and gets back on his feet.

Grantaire clicks his tongue. “Alright then. You stay here, question the witness. I’mma head back to that payphone we passed earlier.”

Enjolras looks at him confused. “Why?”

“Because you get off on talking to people, and someone has to call Combeferre and tell him we found the idiot he crippled himself for.”

If he didn’t know better, he’d have sworn he saw the tiniest smile on Enjolras’ face.

**

He talks only briefly to Combeferre, because overseas calls are quite expensive, but he gets a good sense of how he’s getting better very slowly. Physiotherapy seems to keep him occupied enough, though, and the prospect of a vampire serial killer has him so excited Grantaire pretends to be needed at the crime scene to hang up on him.

When he gets back, most of Eponine’s team have gone and the body has been taken to the mortuary. Enjolras is waiting for him on a park bench.

“How’d the questioning go?” Grantaire asks, letting himself fall next to him.

“Our witness was quite inebriated last night, so not as coherently as one would hope.” He blinks tiredly at Grantaire in the sunlight. “How is Combeferre?”

“Bored, I think. He says hi.”

They sit and enjoy the sunlight for a couple of minutes and just listen to the city. Grantaire might have been wrong, he thinks; Enjolras does seem to enjoy being back here.

“Do we have any leads then?” he asks, because he has to, at some point.

“No. We will have to wait for the results of the medical examination.”

“You’re not doing it?”

“For some reason, they wouldn’t let me. I think it is because I took my exam in the States. They don’t trust me.”

Grantaire laughs at that, involuntarily. Enjolras smiles a bit.

“Let’s get back to the hotel then.” Grantaire gets up lethargically. “I, for one, am _incredibly_ jetlagged, and, no offense, I think you could use a nap, too.”

“None taken,” Enjolras sighs. “That does sound pretty great.”

**

The walls look like they’re melting, and so Grantaire knows he’s dreaming. He sits in their office, but all the files and boxes are gone and it’s just him at his desk. He looks around in confusion.

A girl is standing by the window, they don’t have a window, and doesn’t look at him, so he stands up and tries to get to her, but the room seems to stretch the faster he tries to run. Everything is disintegrating now, his feet sinking into the floorboards.

Finally, she turns around. Where does he know her from?

“Help me,” she says, and the words echo in the empty room.

He wakes up drenched in sweat, the smell of flowers lingering.

**

After a few hours of sleep, they call the French bureau, but the examination has not been conducted yet. Enjolras stays in Grantaire’s room for a while, showing him the case files of the previous victims and losing a game of chess.

“Should we get some dinner then?” he suggests around five, when they’re pretty sure no one will have them called in anymore.

“Sure,” Grantaire says, collecting the chess pieces. “I’ll have to shower first, though. Meet you downstairs in twenty minutes?”

Enjolras agrees and returns to his own room.

The nice weather and the unexpected free afternoon have Grantaire in a particularly good mood when he steps out of the shower shortly after. Of course, it doesn’t last.

When the phone rings, he immediately has a sinking feeling in his gut, like his instincts are already telling him who’s on the other end.

He almost doesn’t pick up.

“We have to meet,” the already familiar voice greets him, skipping past pleasantries altogether now.

“Why?” Grantaire asks sourly.

“Meet me at the cemetery at Montparnasse in an hour. You’ll get some answers then.” The line goes dead.

Grantaire dials reception.

“Did the guy you just connected to my room leave his name or anything else?” he demands in the harsh Southern French that mostly comes out when he’s upset.

The poor receptionist is quite flustered and assures him that she had not connected any phone calls in the past half hour. Grantaire wants to scream.

Instead, he makes an empty excuse to Enjolras about a sudden headache and watches out of his window until he sees him turn the corner.

**

Montparnasse Cemetery closes at 6pm, and his FBI badge doesn’t impress the guard at the portal.

“Come back tomorrow,” he recommends. “There’s guided tours in several languages.”

Grantaire curses and makes sure the guy sees him walk away.

It takes him about ten minutes to find a spot where he can climb the cemetery wall without breaking his leg in the process, too. “Not even on the clock, either,” he grits through his teeth as he lets himself down carefully on the other side.

The sun is just about to set and basks the gravestones in a beautiful orangey glow. It’s quite peaceful, actually.

The guy on the phone - who Grantaire suspects will never actually tell him his name, so he’s nicknaming him Montparnasse - never specified a meeting point within the vast area of the cemetery, so he’s left wandering around, reading the names and questioning major life decisions. He finds Willette and de Beauvoir and realizes that Samuel Beckett had apparently died (he never cared much for _Waiting for Godot_ ), when he hears someone clear their throat just behind his back and turns around quickly.

Montparnasse is so much younger than he had thought. He almost looks like an old-fashioned, but impeccably dressed child in full suit and tie and top hat, and with a rose in his buttonhole.

“You’re late,” he says.

“Well, you picked quite the inconvenient meeting point,” Grantaire answers drily.

“I disagree,” Montparnasse says. “Here, we’ll know immediately if someone tries to listen in. Shall we?” He nods towards one of the paths moving through the graves in an orderly line.

Grantaire follows him. “Why did you want to see me?”

“As you know, I’ve called in to help you several times now.”

“Yeah, though I don’t really know why. Or how, for that matter.”

Montparnasse raises an eyebrow. “Like I said, you have a friend high up.”

“And you’re the friend?”

“In a way.”

“That’s just … great.” Grantaire lets out a huff of air.

Montparnasse smiles. “Don’t concern yourself too much with the politics of things. You’ll understand in due time. Now, it has come to my attention that you’re dealing with the assassination of people belonging to a group called Patron-Minette?”

“Assassination?” The word seems very political, considering he isn’t supposed to concern himself with politics.

“Indeed.” Montparnasse pauses for what Grantaire is sure is just dramatic effect. “My connections were able to ensure the party responsible has been stopped. However, they still need to be held accountable.”

“So you know who did it.”

“I do not.”

Grantaire laughs. He has to. His life has become a fucking game show. “I’m sorry but what the _fuck_ does that even mean? I’m not your dog, you know, what with you just calling and me jumping wherever.”

“No, Grantaire, you are much more than that,” Montparnasse says quietly. Grantaire’s inner chorus of _What the Fuck in D minor_ continues. It’s his leitmotif at this point.

“It is of the utmost importance that you solve this case and bring the culprit to justice. We will soon find a way to put you in contact with a witness that should be able to provide further evidence. Apart from that, I really cannot do much for you.” His eyes lock with Grantaire’s. “I apologise. You and your partner’s lives are intertwined with this now.”

“You do realise you’re not intimidating me with your weird crap, right?” Grantaire says.

Montparnasse laughs, short and lightly. “I’m glad you were picked for this,” he says.

A care engine misfires in the distance and Grantaire turns in the direction of the noise automatically. When he straightens up again, Montparnasse is already gone.

**

He’s kind of forgotten about Pontmercy’s mystery girl by the time loverboy seeks him out one Thursday afternoon. Sure, he picked up the composite sketch back in March, but the pretty dark-haired girl in the drawing had no unique features about her whatsoever, apart from very large eyes that Grantaire is sure were a slight exaggeration on Pontmercy’s part. So the sketch went to a drawer and his mind settled on other things.

They’ve just gotten back in from a tedious interrogation that finally gave them a new clue in the vampire case, and Grantaire is just back in the office to collect a court order before heading out again. Marius watches with his mouth curved downwards like a disapproving child’s.

He gives Grantaire quite the start when he notices him quietly standing in the doorway. “Jesus Christ!”

“Just me,” Pontmercy says. “Are you busy?”

Helplessly, Grantaire looks at the clock, but of course he lets them in. He’d just have to think of an excuse for being late. Nothing new.

Pontmercy looks around with careful curiosity. Grantaire gets it. The smallness of the office makes it more overwhelming to take everything in at once. Personally, he thinks that putting down Combeferre’s weird pictures of moths and the _E.T._ poster would help, but then again, he really enjoys them.

“I was just wondering if you’ve found any sign of her,” Pontmercy says quietly.

The guilt settles back in. “Look, Marius -”

“No, I get it. It’s a pretty hopeless case. I’m sorry. I should probably just move on.” He bites his lip. “It’s just … it’s been hard, you know. Putting myself out there when I feel like I’ve already found my person.”

“I get that.”

“Do you? I’ve never seen you in love,” Pontmercy says defiantly.

“That’s different. I’m quite hard to love,” Grantaire says, because it’s true. It’s always been that way.

Pontmercy frowns. “I don’t think that’s true.”

“Oh, you’re a sweet guy, Marius, but I’m not really seeing this. I’m joking,” he adds, grinning, as Pontmercy blushes horribly and starts sputtering. “I promise you, I will keep looking for your ghost girlfriend, but don’t set your expectations too high, okay?”

“Thanks,” he murmurs. “Actually, I wanted to show you something.” He pulls a crumpled up tissue out of his jacket pocket. “I thought I’d lost it because it got drenched in the rain that night I met her, you know, and the drycleaners took ages to get it back to me.”

He carefully smoothes the tissue out on the table. It’s quite frayed and fragile after its accidental ride in the dryer, but a few seemingly random numbers and letters are still legible.

“I think it fell out of her pocket when I tried calling her a taxi. I found it on the ground. This has got to be her writing, right?” His eyes are so hopeful. “I know it’s not much, but better than nothing, isn’t it?”

Grantaire sighs. “Like I said,” he answers. “Don’t get your hopes up.”

**June**

Summer creeps into the last blossoms of spring before any of them know it. The evenings stretch lavishly into the late hours and more and more people start getting drinks on the tiny tables outside shady bars and clubs with wonky AC.

God, Grantaire could do with a drink right now.

They’re on another stakeout, waiting for a guy who is supposedly the vampire they’ve been looking for (“I hope he changes into a bat, then I’d be really impressed.” “Grantaire …” “Can we even arrest a bat?”). It’s been fucking ages since anything happened, and he is so sick of Enjolras’ mixtapes.

The relief team isn’t coming until past midnight, and he doesn’t want to start another fight, so he heads around the block to get his head free and smoke. As he passes a payphone, it rings.

He’s not even surprised to hear Montparnasse’s voice when he picks up. Well, not really.

“Have you looked at the child?” he asks, not bothering with a greeting. Grantaire has stopped questioning his whole shtick by now.

“The last victim’s son? Seemed legitimately terrified, and understandably so, why?”

“We believe he witnessed something he shouldn’t have. He might be the next target.”

“Well, we’re having our suspect’s home surveyed 24/7, we’ll know if he goes outside to find a new victim.”

“Right. Then you have nothing to worry about,” Montparnasse says slowly. Grantaire hates this.

“Come on, man. What aren’t you telling me?”

He can hear Montparnasse’s smile through the phone. “I’m sorry.”

Grantaire hears his own horn honk a few streets away and he curses. It was a fucking _diversion_. His cigarette bud falls to the ground.

Run. Draw. Load. Run. A crashing sound. A shout.

By the time he gets back to the car, the damage is already done.

Enjolras is scrambling out the driver’s side of the car, visibly in shock, but otherwise unharmed. A second car is racing down the street and around a corner out of sight.

The car looks pretty worse for wear, and Grantaire can only hope the bureau will pay to get it repaired.

“Are you alright?” he shouts at Enjolras, gasping for breath.

He nods. “I got distracted for a second, and he must have gotten into his car right then. I am so sorry.” He looks at the car. “Oh, this is bad.”

“Nevermind that,” Grantaire pretends like it doesn’t sting. “Maybe I’ll finally get an upgrade.”

The people around have already stopped turning to look at the two of them and their wrecked car. _Welcome to the US_ , Grantaire thinks grimly.

**

“My father insists you come for dinner,” Enjolras says stiffly one evening.

Grantaire blinks. “He what now?”

“Are you free this Saturday? I know it is a bit short notice, but I honestly forgot to tell you, even though he has been asking me for weeks. I can tell him you can’t make it.”

“No! I’d love to,” Grantaire interrupts as a nervous blush creeps into Enjolras’ cheeks. “You’ll have to pick me up, though, my car is still in maintenance.”

He does, in dress pants and a shirt, and Grantaire almost turns on the spot to change out of his jeans. This feels weirdly formal to introduce a work colleague. Then again, this whole situation seems a bit strange, but who is he to judge.

The house is part of the small unincorporated community of Paris, Virginia, which seems rather fitting for French immigrants. It does not have a picket fence, but is surrounded by several blossoming hedges and a veranda with a garden swing. There are pictures on every wall.

“So, monsieur Grantaire,” Enjolras’ father says in French as he’s cutting the casserole. “How long have you lived in the United States for?”

“I came here when I was twenty, so no more than two years.” They chuckle politely. Enjolras takes quite a large sip of wine. “Do you miss France, monsieur?” Grantaire asks then.

“Oh, every day of my life. But I wanted to get a new start after the war, and then I wanted to be close to my children.” He smiles sadly. “Now, I am missing France and my daughter.” He chucks Enjolras on the head. “And my son, because he only visits me every few months.”

“Alright, papa,” Enjolras murmurs over his food, embarrassed.

“It’s really not easy with our job,” Grantaire finds himself coming to his aid before he knows what he’s doing. “I mean, I’m not crazy about talking to my parents, but even if I wanted to, it’d be difficult.”

He’s distracted, that’s what it is. Self-control only lasts for so many things at a time, and apparently his sharing personal things is on the losing end tonight.

“You are not close with them?” Enjolras’ father asks softly, careful to not sound prying. Grantaire appreciates that.

“Never was. I do miss my sister, but she’s still living in Marseille, so I hardly ever see her.”

Enjolras put his fork down. “You should have said something when we went to Paris. You could have stayed a few extra days to visit.”

“And who would have paid for that?” Grantaire smiles bitterly. “It’s fine. I’m used to it. It’s not like you and Cosette.”

Enjolras’ eyes go a bit wide, but before he can say anything, his father says cheerfully, “That reminds me, I got a postcard from your sister just last week. Wait, I’ll get it for you.”

He gets up with a grunt and leaves the room, a tired hop in his step.

Grantaire turns very slowly to stare at Enjolras. _“What?”_

“He doesn’t know,” Enjolras hisses hastily. “He thinks she’s in Guatemala building schools for local children, now _please_ pretend I told you about this.”

Grantaire barely has time to set up a confused grin before Enjolras’ father returns to the room. They chat happily about the postcard and other trivialities for a few minutes, until they’ve finished eating and Enjolras can push Grantaire to the kitchen for help with the washing up without looking suspicious.

 _“What the fuck was that about?”_ Grantaire whispers as soon as the door closes behind them.

“I am so sorry about that, I forgot to tell you.” Enjolras bites his lip.

“What, that you lied to me? You said her disappearance was very hard on him!”

“And it was. He was devastated, he was … broken. I just wanted to help him, but I had no idea how. So I … I started writing him postcards from her from all over, so he would think she only wanted to go on an adventure without telling us before. I wanted to spare him the agony of not knowing.” There is a beat. “I know that that’s horrible, but I have never stopped looking for her. I know I can get her home.”

Grantaire sits down on the floor. His feet don’t feel like standing anymore. He itches for a smoke. “But what if you can’t? You have been lying to your _father_ for _years_. What if you never find her? How do you think he’ll take that?”

“I can’t think like that.”

They do the rest of the washing up in silence, and then they join Enjolras’ father again, the fake pleasant smiles returning to their faces.

**

“How’d you even do it?” Grantaire asks after they get back in the car late that evening, laden with leftovers and the warning to drive safely. He doesn’t need to say what he means.

“You know Jehan from the lab? Jehan is really good at imitating people’s handwriting.” Enjolras stares out the window into the darkness. “She used to write us letters whenever she went away. To summer camp, or when she was backpacking in Europe.”

“This whole thing is madness,” Grantaire murmurs as he shifts gears. He hates driving stick.  
“I know,” Enjolras says. “Sometimes when he shows me the postcards, I make myself believe she really is there, you know. I just forget for a second. It hurts even more then.”

Grantaire has nothing to say to that.

**

He insists Enjolras sleep on his couch, because he won’t have him drive home after a few glasses of wine in the middle of the night. Enjolras doesn’t even fight him, just takes the spare toothbrush and pajama Grantaire hands him and heads to the bathroom.

Grantaire has not yet fallen asleep hours later when the phone rings.

Cursing silently, he stumbles to the living room where Enjolras is thankfully still out dead. “You tricked me,” he stage whispers into the receiver as he closes the bedroom door behind him with his foot, badly kinking the cable. “You let our guy get away.”

“Your suspect is watching your windows right now,” Montparnasse says. “I thought you’d want to know.”

An ice cold shower down his back. “How do you know that?”

“Because I am watching them.”

This time, Grantaire is the one to hang up first. He gets dressed swiftly, loading his gun and hiding it under the jacket. He feels a twitch of guilt when he leaves Enjolras behind alone, still sleeping. _You and your partner’s lives are intertwined with this now._ The door closes.

His apartment is on one of the lower floors of the building, which is useful when the elevator isn’t working and inconvenient when a suspect is stalking you. Lucky for Grantaire, the door of his building is drawn in shadows.

The streets seem empty, but he still waits for the distraction of a passing car before he runs around the corner and seeks cover in the entrance of the neighbouring building. He squints at the windows opposite. Apart from one or two nocturnals who are not at their windows, everything is pitch dark.

A long whistle rings through the night and his head darts up. Cowering on the low roof of the apartment building looking up at his, he can make up to slender figures. One of them seems to be wearing a top hat. The other one starts running.

It’s too late for Grantaire to shoot, so he sprints to his front door and presses his own doorbell for just a second, just in case. Then he rushes across the street, scrambling for his gun.

He knows there’s a fire escape on the other side of the building, but by the time he gets there, no one is on it.

“Over here,” Montparnasse shouts and Grantaire runs in the direction of his voice, through another alley and across another street. His sides are stinging when he skitters to a stop between a closed kiosk and a small dark park.

There is a body lying on the boardwalk.

Montparnasse is kneeling next to it, his top hat lost and a hand pressed against his head like he’s shielding a wound.

“What happened?” Grantaire demands. There’s blood on the ground, so much blood, but he’s not sure where it’s from. The smell of roses is sticking to his lungs.

“He fell,” Montparnasse says drily. The man on the ground is large and very burly, not at all like the figure Grantaire saw on the roof.

There’s banging noises in the alleyway behind him and Grantaire swivels around, his weapon fully drawn now. It’s too dark to see much more than another silhouette disappear behind some shrubs.

Enjolras comes running, flashlight and gun in hand and both aimed directly at Grantaire. He’s wearing his pajama bottoms under his coat.

“Where did they go?” he shouts.

Grantaire half-turns in confusion, but of course Montparnasse is long gone. There’s a wet footprint in the pool of blood next to him, sticky and scarlet. Apart from that, he’s just vanished into thin air. Like a ghost.

Grantaire puts his weapon down. “What the _fuck_.”

**

“What were you _thinking_?!”

Enjolras does still love shouting at him, so that is a plus, at least.

“Why would you go out _without backup_?”

“I got a call. Besides, you were my backup.” Lie. Subvert. Protect.

“No thanks to you! You were lucky I even woke up, and now there’s a _dead body_! And what do you mean, ‘you got a call’? From who?”

“I only know he’s one of the higher ups. I met him once before, when we were in Paris.” There, the truth. That wasn’t even hard. “Besides, this,” he nods at the dead guy and the pool of blood, “wasn’t him. I saw a second figure fleeing the scene.”

Enjolras frowns. “Wait, that’s what you were … nevermind.” He rubs his temples. “You can’t do this, Grantaire. You can’t just leave me out of things like this.”

“You’re right.” Grantaire throws his hand in the air. “I should probably just take a page out of your book and only lie to the people closest to me, _that_ will make things better!”

“That’s completely different!”

“Oh, I forgot, it’s different when _you_ do it. It’s only a problem when _I_ do.”

“What happens with my family is _private_. Meanwhile, you’re gallivanting about, keeping secrets about our cases from me.”

“I would have told you as soon as it became something that was relevant to you. Which, for the record, I just did, two minutes ago.”

“Because you had no choice _but_ to tell me! I can’t trust you as my partner if you’re not honest with me!”

“You don’t trust me anyway! We’re not friends. We’re not _confidants_. We’re _colleagues_. We’re temporary work partners, and that’s it.”

“Great. I’m fine with that!”

“Fine.”

“Fine!”

Things are incredibly fine.

**July**

The next job is awkward.

They don’t talk about their fight; then again, they’ve hardly talked at all these past six weeks. Enjolras grips the steering wheel as if he’s trying to strangle it, only taking his eyes off the road to change the radio station whenever the one they’re listening to starts crackling.

Grantaire stares at a photocopy of Pontmercy’s tissue message. Of course, it hasn’t helped them find anything, but he likes keeping it around as a reminder that someone is still counting on him.

The note indicates coordinates, that much was easy enough to find out. It still doesn’t give them a lot to work with, though, as they show the middle of New Mexico desert. Ironically, it’s the same ten mile radius all the happy people disappeared in. It seems to be sort of a Bermuda Triangle down in UFO state.

He’s not sure why he suddenly cares so much, either. He’s not speaking to a lot of people these days. Combeferre has a bad case of hayfever, so he can barely get a sentence out without being interrupted by his own sneezes. The other departments have a lot of work to catch up on, and even Marius doesn’t have time for a chat these days. Meanwhile, the weird and supernatural have collectively decided to take a summer break.

This one is their first new corpse since the night of their fight, found by some joggers in the forests of Colorado, apparently mauled to death by a very large animal. A few months ago, Grantaire would have made several jokes about Bigfoot. Now, he just hopes this is not going to take too long. He is so sick of all of this.

Enjolras parks next to the local Sheriff’s Office, where an armed man with a moustache and uniform is already waiting for them. Without the radio blabbering on in the background, the silence is even more tangible.

“Listen, I hope we can be professional out there,” Enjolras says, staring straight ahead.

“Oh, so we’re speaking now?”

Enjolras huffs. “We have to present a united front when we talk to the suspect, so I would _suggest_ we leave our personal disagreements out of this for now.”

“Sure,” Grantaire deadpans and lowers his sunglasses. “Anything for the case.” _‘Personal disagreements’, my ass_ , he doesn’t say, because he can be fucking professional.

He can hear Enjolras’ sharp intake of breath as if he wants to add something else, but he’s already out of the car.

**

Grantaire knows the drill. He has done his research. He can be professional all day long.

Sadly, the whole thing takes a couple of days.

The victim had been the owner of a local pub, and a popular one at that, even though he was apparently a scumbag of a human being. None of his five children spoke to him anymore, and his wife actually laughed in their faces when they dropped by to ask her some questions about her late husband.

Surprisingly, they still don’t have a lot to go on.

Enjolras’ autopsy shows human and animal scratch marks down the victim’s back, arms and neck. The human DNA is inconclusive, the other seems to be canine.

Grantaire doesn’t even crack a joke _then_.

Their ‘professional partnership’ is a disaster in every way, and they both know it, but they continue with their individual silent treatment. It’s _exhausting_.

And then, it starts to rain.

They’re miles from the car, because Enjolras thought it would be such a great idea to check out this hunting shed someone at the pub mentioned, which is located in the middle of Nowhere, Fuck You. They’re soaked to their bones within minutes, while the thunder cracks over their heads like it’s the end of the world.

They continue trudging through the sludging pathways until the rain lashes so harshly against their faces they have to seek cover under an incline. Enjolras tries contacting the Sheriff’s Office with his pager, but the rain has gotten into the battery compartment and rendered it completely useless.

His pristine white shirt is muddied, and he’s had to loosen the red tie he always wears because the wind would have already suffocated him otherwise. His hair is sticking to his face all over, and Grantaire is sure he’s not better off. He can’t shake the feeling that he’s sat down in wild animal faeces.

Instead, he laughs.

He laughs and laughs, because this is what his life has come to. Sitting in a storm in literal shit with a guy he doesn’t talk to, hunting a cynocephaly murderer.

“What is wrong with you,” Enjolras shouts, but he can’t stop. He continues laughing until he can feel tears running down his face, until his sides hurt, until he can hear Enjolras joining him because somehow he understands now, until this torrent stops raining down as heavily and they help each other up and stumble on, until they find that Godforsaken shed empty and full of cobwebs.

Somehow, they’re okay after that.

**

There’s a girl in his dream, a girl with dark brown hair and eyes that look so familiar.

She points at him, then at the sky.

Then she screams.

**August**

The werewolf case is going to be a dilemma to explain in the official record, and they both know it. The girl escaped, though, which means they might be able to get away without mentioning her shapeshifting before their very eyes. Combeferre would be _livid_.

It’s too far to drive all the way back to D.C., so they check into a motel somewhere in Kansas. By the time Grantaire has scrubbed some of the old blood out of his second-best suit - latest victim’s from two days ago, not his own, which makes it worse in his opinion - it’s time for dinner.

They also still have to talk, even though Grantaire is dreading it. He smokes three cigarettes before he enters the diner next door.

Apparently, they sell alcohol in this particular diner, and Enjolras has been sitting there for a while, because by the time Grantaire sits down opposite him, he is already quite tipsy.

“See, I told you,” he shouts at the amused waitress. “She wouldn’t believe me that I was waiting for someone,” he explains as Grantaire raises an eyebrow.

“How many of these have you had?” Grantaire grins.

“He’s had two,” the waitress says and hands him a menu. “He refused to order food without you, but I don’t think he’s eaten today.”

“I have not,” Enjolras tells her happily.

Grantaire grins. He orders a caramel milkshake with his breakfast food.

“You know, I’ve never seen you drink,” Enjolras says pensively. “Like, alcohol.”

Alright then. They had agreed on the truth. “I quit drinking eight months ago.”

“Why?” That’s their relationship at this point, Grantaire supposes, him saying something and Enjolras questioning it.

“Because I _really_ didn’t want to.”

Enjolras makes a non committal humming noise, swivelling the remnants of beer around in his bottle. He looks pretty in his tipsy state. Softer, somehow. Even his curls seem to fall more disorderly.

He’s let his guard down, maybe for the first time in all the months Grantaire has known him now. It’s disconcerting. So, he just keeps talking.

“We were supposed to be on this stakeout and instead of sleeping through my partner’s shift, I got stupid drunk. Of course, right after I got back in, our suspect gets in, followed by a whole bunch of crooks he was working with. We couldn’t wait for backup, and we couldn’t risk them getting away through the other exit.”

His memories of that night are hazy, but he still remembers the sound of gunshots echoing through the hall, the smell of gasoline heavy in the air, the heat of the flames. Enjolras stares at him without blinking.

“They burned the building down. I don’t know how they even knew we were there so quickly. I almost got my partner killed, because I was a lousy second and couldn’t aim straight.” He got suspended for two months, and sent to mandatory AA meetings for twice that long. “I got an official time-out and a shitton of therapy, and just when I was cleared for work again, Combeferre calls me asking for a favour.” He takes a sip from his milkshake. It’s disgustingly sweet and wonderful. “And wouldn’t you know it, laying low and confronting ghosts was _exactly_ what my therapist said I should do.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes so hard it must _hurt_.

Their food arrives and they eat in silence for a while, apart from Enjolras’ disgusted noises as he watches Grantaire dip fries into his milkshake and eat them delightedly.

“So, your turn,” Grantaire decides. Enjolras groans. “What? This is a democracy.”

“I know it’s the fairest and most advanced form of government, but I don’t think I like it right now,” Enjolras mumbles.

Grantaire laughs, but he still asks. “Why won’t you tell me anything about your life?”

“Because I _loathe_ talking about myself.” Enjolras hides his head between his hands. “I can’t do it, honestly. It’s so much easier to just be mysterious all of the time.”

“You really aren’t mysterious.”

“I’m not?”

“Nope. You’re just an evasive idiot.”

“Fair. That’s fair.” He thoughtfully chews on a piece of pancake. “I just take a bit longer to trust people, I guess. Particularly when I know their company is just _temporary_.”

“Touché. That was shitty of me.”

“Yeah, it was.” He scratches some maple syrup off the plate with his fork. “Why was that so important to you at the beginning? That this was only for a short time?”

“Not so short now, huh?”

“I guess.”

“I didn’t want to be stuck in the basement with the weirdos and ghouls forever. I wanted to prove to myself that I wasn’t just a fuck-up who got everyone around hurt.”

There it is. The truth.

“And I didn’t tell you about the calls from Montparnasse because if you’d gotten involved, his tips leading us somewhere wouldn’t have been my achievements anymore. Does that make sense?”

“Kind of.”

“Plus, I don’t exactly trust the guy, despite of the help he’s been. So, if something went wrong, only I’d be taking the blame.”

“You do realise that sharing that sort of ‘blame’ is exactly what a partner is for, right? I’m supposed to be having your back.”

“I know.”

Enjolras stares at the wall behind him for a while before he speaks again. “I didn’t want to show you Cosette’s file because you wouldn’t have let me believe she’s still out there somewhere.”

“How can you be sure?”

“You tend to not believe in things.”

“I try to.” _I want to_ , he thinks.

“You should. It’s brighter on this side of life.”

He looks at Enjolras, properly _looks_ at him for the first time in weeks, and a weird warm feeling settles in his stomach.

It is in that precise moment Enjolras throws up violently onto his empty plate.

“Come on, buddy, let’s get you to bed,” Grantaire grins and flashes the very concerned waitress his badge before she can make them clean up their mess. Once again, he finds himself leaving a very generous tip on behalf of the bureau.

Somehow, Enjolras is still quite drunk after a full meal, but against all odds he is able to walk quite steadily and only has to hang to a tree one or two times as they make their way back. The receptionist still raises an eyebrow as he staggers into the lobby, and Grantaire shrugs helplessly.

“Alright then,” he says when they get to Enjolras’ door. “You sleep on your side and drink some water before then, got that?”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras slurs and tries to tip him on the chest. He misses, but he regains his balance quickly. “Grantaire, I wanna show you something and it’s real important.” He fumbles with his keys. “You’re gonna stay, right? It’s very important.”

Grantaire ends up letting them both in, if only because he’s just now noticing that Enjolras has started using a lot more contractions and it’s strangely endearing when that doesn’t happen because he’s shouting at him. He turns on the lights and watches Enjolras stumble to the dresser, upon which he has thrown a couple of files earlier.

“Here,” he says excitingly, throwing one of them in his general direction and stumbling backwards onto the second bed.

Grantaire collects the documents that were strewn onto the floor and joins him, sitting down on the edge. He’s holding Cosette’s file.

“Go on, take a look,” Enjolras tells him. The first page shows a large picture of her face laughing into the camera. “She’s pretty, isn’t she?”

She’s unmistakably Enjolras’ sister. They have the exact same blue eyes and delicate cheekbones. Where his hair is blonde, though, Cosette’s is a rich, heavy mahogany.

“She _is_ very pretty,” Grantaire confirms. “She looks a lot like you.”

For some reason, Enjolras blushes and takes another sheet of paper out of the file. The photograph on this page is taken from farther away. Her hair is shorter now, and she’s standing barefoot next to Enjolras on a picnic blanket somewhere in a park. Her white dress is fluttering in the wind. They both look carefree.

“That was the day she vanished,” Enjolras says quietly, and Grantaire’s heart _breaks_.

“When did you find out?”

“The next morning.” He smiles sadly. “She’d gotten into her dream college the year before, but she’d call me every single day to tell me about her plans. I knew something was wrong the moment I had to leave for work and the telephone still hadn’t rung.”

Grantaire hugs him then, silently, because he doesn’t know what else to do with himself.

They get ready for bed afterwards, because there are no more truths to be told. Grantaire gets his stuff from his own room, but returns because Enjolras asks him to and he does not really want to leave. He forces him to down half a liter of water after brushing his teeth.

Then, they lie on their beds with the lights off, pretending not to stare at each other while the other wouldn’t see.

“Why’d you become a cop?” Enjolras asks after a while, nestling into his pillow. “You’re always pretendin you don’t care about anything, but I think you do. You just hide it. But else you wouldn’t be doing this.”

Grantaire smiles an ugly smile he’s glad Enjolras probably couldn’t see in the dark.

“I never _wanted_ to be a cop. I didn’t have much choice in the matter. It’s a family business. I’m just lucky it’s the one thing I’m decent at.”

“You’re a damn good detective,” Enjolras whispers tiredly.

The smile gets soft, and he hates himself a bit for it. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“Why not?”

“I wanted to make a difference, y’know,” Enjolras says, and he’s so quiet now it’s barely a whisper. “I wanted to change this system from the bottom up, even when I was younger, because it’s constantly shitting on people and no one’s doing anything. I wanted …” He breaks off and Grantaire doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to breathe. He stares at the ceiling and his heart is itching. “Cosette disappeared, and … I still want all of these things, but I _need_ answers more than that. It’s so selfish.”

“It’s really not,” Grantaire says hoarsely. “It’s sad, and it’s human, but it’s not selfish.”

There’s a rustling of bedsheets on the left side of the room, and he can feel Enjolras trying to stare at his face in the dark, but he still doesn’t move. He watches the dust twirl and feels his heart beat in his throat.

It’s quiet for a very long while, so Grantaire can’t be sure if he actually hears Enjolras say “thank you”, or if he’s fallen asleep.

**September**

Just about when things are getting back to normal, it’s starting to look like autumn and Combeferre gets the clear from Joly to get back to work.

“I’m sure Enjolras will be glad to have you back soon,” Grantaire tells him on the phone.

“I do look forward to never seeing sunlight during the workday,” Combeferre says, and he can hear him grin through the line. “Anyway, there’s no rush. I’ve talked to management, and they said you two can just close up your current case and we’ll switch back to normal after that.”

“Copy that.” It’s just then that Enjolras comes in, two mugs of coffee balanced in one hand, while carrying a filing box in the other. “Listen, I have to go.” He takes the coffee from Enjolras to prevent a tragic accident. “Looks like this is gonna be our last case together.”

Enjolras furrows his brow the tiniest bit. “Are you leaving?”

There’s a weird feeling in his stomach at that remark, barely noticable and not entirely unfamiliar. “Combeferre is all healed up, so you’re finally getting rid of me,” he grins, determined not to examine it.

“Oh. Of course. That … is great news,” Enjolras says and blinks slowly, like he’s just waking up. “Should we get to it then?”

The feeling is gone. The feeling is dead. “Sure.”

**

The week sort of flies by, and all of a sudden it’s Thursday, the case is closed, and Enjolras is helping him pack his stuff from the office. Grantaire had bought Combeferre a print of the USS _Enterprise_ for his return next week and tries to hang it between the two shelves on the smaller side on the office, balancing shakily on a swivel chair, while Enjolras is sorting through the files stuffed into Grantaire’s desk drawer.

“I have honestly no idea how you are able to find anything,” he says reproachfully.

“You’re the one talking,” Grantaire answers, looking at the piles of junk on Enjolras’ desk.

“Why do you have a sketch of Cosette in here?” Enjolras asks, ignoring the remark.

“Sorry, must’ve gotten in between my stuff when you shoved her file in my face back in Kansas. Just take it back.” The chair suddenly rolls away from the wall and he yelps. “Care to help for a sec?”

Enjolras shakes his head and holds the chair in place until Grantaire finally manages to get the frame straight.

“There we go. Looks great, don’t you think?”

“Combeferre will want you to stay instead of me.”

“Damnit, you saw right through me!” His pager beeps. “It’s the mortuary” he says questioningly after listening to the message.

“Oh, sorry. That’s for me. I gave them your number because mine is still broken and IT refuses to get me a new one.” He tries to reach for the device, but Grantaire holds it above his head, out of his reach.

“First, you tell me why IT hates you,” he says grinning. “Because I know for a fact that Feuilly is one of the nicest people working for the bureau.”

“I might have questioned his work speed once,” Enjolras murmurs and has the decency to look ashamed. “It was _one_ time, and it was years ago!”

“Yeah, you’re still going to have to reimburse him. Chocolate cake, maybe. I think his birthday is coming up.”

“Sure. Now give me that.” He listens, looks at the clock and sighs. “They need me at the operation desk in an hour to fill in for someone.” He hands Grantaire the pager back. “Sorry to leave you.”

“No, you’re not. I know you’d much rather spend your time cutting up dead people than sorting through my crap. Don’t lie to my face.”

Enjolras grins and flounces out the door.

It takes Grantaire an embarrassing amount of time to get all the stuff he left behind in the last half year together on his own. When he’s finally done, the office looks somewhat presentable for his goodbye party tomorrow afternoon.

He tries really hard not to think about what he’ll be doing come Monday.

Enjolras is not back yet by the time he leaves the office, so Grantaire sets one of the paper cranes he found while cleaning onto his desk. He takes one long last look in privacy, and then he closes the door.

**

The girl is in his dream again.

She’s standing in the middle of a field he recognises from somewhere, and there is blood all over her and her white dress. Grantaire can’t tell if it’s her own.

“Please,” she whispers in his direction. And then she vanishes into thin air.

**

This is ridiculous, Grantaire tells himself as he’s dialing Enjolras’ number. Completely ridiculous. It’s just a dream.

The ringing sounds empty and hollow in his ear, and it’s endless.

It’s better this way, he tells himself as he hangs up. No need to call your work partner about a nightmare involving his missing sister. No need at all.

He tries it again, to no avail.

And all of a sudden, things click. He has to look up the next number in the phone book.

“Who’s there,” Marius says groggily.

“Marius, tell me again what your runaway girl looked like.”

“What?”

 _“What did she look like?”_ Grantaire’s eyes flick to the clock. It’s two in the morning.

“Face of an angel,” Marius answers. “Dark hair, kind of wavy, but not like yours. Softer. Quite short. The bluest eyes you’ve ever seen.”

He has a very bad feeling about all of this.

“And what was she wearing when you saw her?”

“I don’t know, a dress? White maybe?” There’s a short pause. “Now that I’m thinking about it, I don’t think she was wearing any shoes. Grantaire, have you -”

He hangs up.

This can’t make sense. He cannot be seeing people he’s never met in real life. He’s going crazy.

_But it does make sense._

He calls Enjolras again, but there’s still no answer.

**

He drives to Enjolras’ house and rings the bell to his apartment until his neighbour yells at him.

He drives to the mortuary, but the lights are all off and the night guard is not very patient with him.

Finally, he drives back to work.

The FBI headquarters is open for agents at all hours, so he doesn’t have any problems getting in. Steve from the night shift might hate everything, but Grantaire isn’t here for a chat, so he doesn’t really pay attention.

His feet find their way to the basement almost on their own. He’s in the office before he realises, he impatiently sweeps the paper crane off the desk, and there it is. Cosette’s file.

Now that he’s here, he almost doesn’t want to open it, but there’s no point denying it now.

_‘Why do you have a sketch of Cosette in here’, indeed._

On top of the documents about Enjolras’ sister is the facial composite of Marius’ missing girl.

**

He’s not sure how he gets to the office kitchen. He only remembers that he saw one of the agents putting a bottle of wine in the fridge, and now he needs it. Fuck sobriety. He’s losing his mind, drinking or not.

His hands are shaking as he pours it into a water glass.

Then, he blacks out for a moment, until a phone rings, the glass is empty, and he still doesn’t feel better. Why doesn’t he feel better?

He manages to get to the phone. His voice doesn’t sound like his own. “How?”

“You need to let this go.” Montparnasse does not sound amused at all.

“But none of this is right. I can’t reach Enjolras, and this girl -”

“Grantaire, listen to me.” His head is going to explode, he knows it. He curses and puts the empty glass down. His hands are still trembling. “The girl has not committed any crime, nor is she a person of interest in any case your bureau has investigated.”

“ _My_ bureau?”

There is a short silence on the other end of the line. When Montparnasse speaks again, he sounds different, somehow. Younger.

“You are meddling in something that is none of your concern. Up until now, I was able to help you with everything you’ve asked for, but if you and your partner don’t stop looking for things that aren’t there, you’ll unleash a whole new kind of hell.”

“Then why help us at all?” Grantaire laughs, but there is no joy left in him. “You started this whole charade, and what for? To just then tell me to _stop_ when it suddenly got inconvenient? Why?!”

“Because we need someone like you just as much as someone like you needs us. And we need you alive.”

The line goes dead.

**

The next day, Enjolras waltzes into the office like he’d never been gone. Grantaire swallows his relief. He doesn’t remember if he’s slept at all or just stared at the wall for the past few hours.

“Jesus, you look rough,” Enjolras says. “Are you feeling alright?”

“Where have you been?”

Enjolras stops in his tracks. “What do you mean?”

“I tried calling you. I even went by your apartment, where were you?”

“We went out for drinks after the autopsy and it got a bit late. Grantaire, what is going on with you?”

He tells him about the phone call first, because that’s the part he can make sense of.

Enjolras, of course, is _furious_.

“So he’s not even with the bureau? You’ve been sharing _confidential information_ with him for _months_. We could get suspended. You could go to jail.”

“I know these things, all right? I fucked up, now will you stop _shouting_?”

Interestingly, that works. Grantaire takes a deep breath.

“There’s something else going on, something that’s connected to a lot of our cases. I think Combeferre was starting to see it, too, but he didn’t know what it was.”

“What _is_ it, then?”

“I don’t know.”

“Great!”

“Yet! But I think it somehow has to do with Marius’ girl.” There is no way to break this softly.

“Who?”

Despite himself, Grantaire laughs. “Pontmercy. Works in the archives. Lanky guy, million freckles.”

“Obviously I know Pontmercy,” Enjolras hisses, like a liar.

Grantaire’s mind is racing, because he doesn’t know, he just doesn’t know how to tell him his suspicions. What if he’s completely off? What if he’s just going completely insane for no reason?

But the way Enjolras looks at him, with nothing but concern in his eyes, keeps him talking. He makes him sit down.

“Months ago, Marius told me he’d fallen madly in love with a girl who disappeared before he could even ask for her name. I didn’t think too much of it, because that has happened to me several times in the past, but he kept pestering me.”

He puts the facial composite down in front of Enjolras.

“That’s not a rendering of Cosette. That’s the drawing a composite artist came up with when I sent him to sit with Marius.” He puts the picture of Cosette at the picnic next to it. “He described her down to her summer dress.”

Enjolras looks so confused. “But …” He blinks. “Maybe he knew her from before she went missing.”

“Impossible,” Grantaire says. “I already checked. Marius moved here from Paris two years ago, that’s long after Cosette even went missing. And you wrote that she went to Europe when she was eighteen? Marius spent that year cooped up in Montréal, studying Translation.” He frowns. “I have no idea how he got this job.”

“But that could still be a coincidence. Why would she still be wearing the same things she did when she disappeared? And why would she talk to Marius, and not to me or my father?” His eyes are wet.

“Marius said she told him that she had relatives in England,” Grantaire says softly. “I checked the file. Your mom lives there, doesn’t she?”

He lets Enjolras sit in all this new information for a while. He doesn’t feel much better, either. He can still taste the alcohol burning on his tongue. It’s enough to almost turn his stomach and cry for more.

“What does any of that have to do with Montparnasse, though?,” Enjolras asks flatly.

That’s the one last thing Grantaire can make sense of. “When Montparnasse first contacted me, he told me to not look into the case we were working at the time. Or so I thought. I checked the archive history, and that was around the same time Marius first asked me to look for Cosette.”

Enjolras closes his eyes. “If he tried to stop you from finding out what happened to Cosette, that means there is something there that we have been missing but could have found in the archives.” He takes the phone off the hook and dials a number blindly. “Tell Pontmercy to get down to the X-Files unit _immediately_.”

Grantaire watches him bemusedly. “He’s already scared of you, you know.”

“Frankly, Grantaire, I would be scared of myself, too, if I were him right now.”

**

Filling in Marius on what they know takes the better part of an hour, so Grantaire just steals the whole coffee pot from upstairs. He’s slowly feeling a little more human, the workload making his head more or less function again.

As soon as Marius understands the stakes of what they’re looking at, he starts pulling up various statistics from the investigations they’ve done since March. Apart from the vampire murders, none of them seem to be related.

“Maybe the dates are significant?” Grantaire suggests.

Enjolras shakes his head, reading over Marius’ shoulder. “Nothing on her birthday, nothing on the day she disappeared. Not even something on my father’s birthday.”

“What about days of the week?”

Marius says no.

“What else did Montparnasse say to you?” Enjolras asks forcefully.

“Apart from what I already told you, the only thing I can remember is that he was extremely upset about the vampire cases in Paris.”

“Did he say that exactly?”

“I don’t know, it’s been ages!”

“Think about it.”

“I _am_ thinking, it’s just that I’m not a fucking walking database.”

“But there has to be something that -”

“Tomorrow is a full moon, right?” Marius chimes in shyly. Both of them look at him surprised. “It’s just that I clearly remember meeting Cosette on a night with a full moon. That’s why I could see her face so well.”

He types a string of commands into the computer and a list of dates appears. “These are all the dates of the full moon this year. That one,” he circles the February date, “is when I first met her. I think some of these might coincide with your homicides, right?”

It takes them a while to double check, but Marius is right. The first of the Fake Ripper killings, two of the vampire murders and the first werewolf attack all coincide with a full moon.

“We know the vampire murders were all related to Patron-Minette.”

The list stays the same. All of the victims, or their relatives, had some connection to the gang.

“It still doesn’t tell us anything about what Cosette had to do with this,” Enjolras sighs.

“Nothing rational, at least,” Grantaire murmurs and he hates, hates, hates what he is about to suggest. “What if the connection maybe is … not that?”

**

The next hours are a blur, to be honest.

Of course, in context the New Mexico coordinates make a lot more sense, so that’s where they’re focusing their mission on. Dozens of phone calls have them get a team together and also get rid of the cake that was planned for the office party that afternoon. Enjolras gets into a heated discussion with the deputy director about this truly being the worst possible time to talk about budget cuts for the next year, after which he looks as done with the world as Grantaire has ever seen him.

The pro side is, they get upgraded to a SWAT team.

They leave Marius behind in the office, still anxiously polishing his glasses but more hopeful than Grantaire has seen him in months. Enjolras has the same glint in his eyes. It’s hard to look away.

Enjolras drives almost the whole way, only stopping for food and gas, and disobeying every single speed limit.

The SWAT team is already there when they finally arrive, and Enjolras sends them to surround and sift through the area they have determined.

Grantaire and he are the last ones to leave.

They don’t talk for a while, they just walk and look.

Finally, Enjolras breaks the silence. “This has been the craziest day of my entire life.”

Grantaire laughs hollowly. “You’re telling me.” The last thirty-six hours seem to have lasted a week and just a second at the same time.

“You know, you never did tell me why, though.”

“Why what?”

“Why you joined the X-Files. You said it was a time out; you said it was to help Combeferre out; you said you wanted to find Bigfoot and send the evidence of his existence to your friends from college who laughed at you.”

“I can’t believe that one made your top three list.”

“It was _very_ specific.”

“I never did get to make those Bigfoot jokes when we were in Colorado because we weren’t talking then.”

“Another time.”

“Is that a promise?”

He chuckles. Grantaire can feel the warmth settling in his stomach again.

“Honestly, though. Why did you do it? You could have asked for sick leave and lived a perfectly normal life in blissful ignorance of all the craziness around you.”

“Oh, please. I can still choose to perceive very selectively.” He’s still joking because he doesn’t have the right words yet. His head has started to hum again. “I think it just fascinated me how you could try to believe in something so completely bogus as the supernatural. I mean, it still does.”

“I get that,” Enjolras says, shuffling his feet through the sand.

“I know. That helps too,” Grantaire answers without thinking.

The shuffling stops. His head aches. They’re standing, not looking at each other.

“Why?” Enjolras asks.

_The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth._

And just like that, he knows.

“Because I’m in -” He stops himself just in time, because, _fuck_ , now is not the time for this.

The time for realizations was before all of this, before the messes and the fighting and the dinners and the getting drunk.

He doesn’t know what Enjolras is doing, because he can’t bring himself to look up. Their boots are muddy and the moonlight makes the sand look all glowy and silver.

“Grantaire …”

The humming inside his head gets louder and he presses his knuckles against his eyes to make it _stop_.

Instead, it grows even louder and more distant. That doesn’t make any sense.

“You have to tell me if you see that.” He can barely hear Enjolras releasing the safety catch on his gun. The wind picks up speed, and it’s deafening.

Grantaire looks up at the sky.

He’s dreaming. He must be.

Otherwise, why would the stars be so bright?

They both start running at the same time, but neither of them know where the main source of it all is coming from. Grantaire catches Enjolras’ hand and nods for them to split up.

Enjolras looks into his eyes, the same question still written all across his face.

He presses his hand.

Grantaire continues running, his head buzzing and humming with the wind.

Then he reaches a ravine and everything stops.

There’s a deafening silence that surrounds him, and the first thing he sees is Montparnasse, his head wound healed without a trace, a sorry look on his face.

The second thing … no.

He decides to count down from three with his eyes closed and then return to reality.

It doesn’t work. Of fucking course.

In the middle of the sandy pit ahead is the girl in the white dress from Enjolras’ picture, arms outstretched in a beam of light.

And she is _flying_.

His hand flashes to his pager. Montparnasse grabs his arm and shakes his head in a warning.

Grantaire is so sick of it. So he runs.

He’s running, he’s shouting his position into the pager, he’s hoping, praying, God-fucking-damn believing.

For a second at least.

**Author's Note:**

> come scream at me on [tumblr](https://itistimeforusalltodecidewhoweare.tumblr.com/).
> 
> [check out Megan's fanstastic cosplays](https://mistoelectra.tumblr.com/post/617294412573229056/part-of-my-contributions-to-the-les-mis-big-bang)


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